Author: Richard McGuire

What I liked about Ujjain is that it’s off the main beaten tourist track and so there was relatively little harassment of foreigners by touts. Yet, at the same time, Ujjain is an important holy city, one of the four hosting enormous Hindu religious festival, the Kumbh Mela, every 12 years. Next year, in 2016. it’s Ujjain’s turn to host it again.

I don’t know how many people it actually draws. Some of the local people told me it will draw the same as Allahabad, which drew almost 35 million people on a single day. I find that hard to believe though as the river in Ujjain, the Shipra, is much smaller than the Ganges and I didn’t see the kind of large areas to accommodate pilgrims as I saw in Allahabad or Haridwar.

I was up before dawn on my one full day in Ujjain (I stayed two nights) to get an auto rickshaw from the nearby clock tower to Ram Ghat, where people bathe in the river and perform their rituals. The golden light on the temples and reflected in the water as the sun came up created some beautiful scenes.

I visited several of the temples nearby to photograph their interiors and some of the rituals going on, as well as their peaceful settings. Harsiddhi Mandir and Gopal Mandir were the two main ones. The first had two blackened stone towers at the front that are apparently lit with lamps during festivals. The latter had some silver plated doors that were at one time pillaged and taken to Afghanistan, then later to Lahore, Pakistan, before finally being taken back.

The Vedh Shala is an observatory built in 1730 and used to calculate time and celestial events. I took an auto rickshaw to the south of the city to visit it. It is apparently still in use, although I’m not sure to what extent. The technology was very sophisticated at the time it was built, but I suspect it’s not up to today’s standards.

I decided to give the main temple, Mahakaleshwar Mandir, a pass because it was very crowded, there was heavy security and I would have had to check my camera at the cloak room.

Instead, I enjoyed wandering through the bazaars, where I found people friendly without any of the hard sell found in more touristy places. A number of young men and merchants even asked me to take their photos, so I had some interesting and willing subjects.

I took a nap in my hotel room in the afternoon, but there was loud banging construction in the next room, so I had to wear earplugs. Suddenly I heard the bathroom wall partially collapsing and masonry tumbling across my bathroom floor. They were apparently fixing the water pipes. I shrugged it off as typical India, but later they offered me a new room.

After the nap I hunted around for a cyber cafe to copy my photo files, but as mentioned in my last post, I lost access to them due to a virus. As the files still appear to be on the memory stick, I’m hopeful I can recover them when I return home and can use some sophisticated recovery software. I lost my photos of Sanchi, Bhopal and  everything I’d taken early that day in Ujjain.

That evening, I returned for sunset at Ram Ghat, to watch and photograph the evening Hindu rituals. It was certainly not on the scale of Varanasi, but it also seemed a little more intimate and less like something put on as a performance for visitors.

The next morning, Thursday, Feb. 12, I left on an early train to Udaipur in the state of Rajasthan. It was an all-day trip, but fortunately I had a 2 AC sleeper, the lower of two bunks, so was able to spread out and nap or read during the long journey. It wasn’t crowded, and the trip passed quickly, and I arrived in Udaipur after dark.

Bhopal is probably best known for being the site of the world’s worst industrial accident when in 1984, a leak of toxic gas escaped from a fertilizer plant run by Union Carbide, killing tens of thousands of people.

The capital of Madhya Pradesh, however, today offers much for the visitor, even though it is not on the main tourist circuit.

After arriving and checking into my hotel near the railway station, I walked to the bus stand to get a bus for Sanchi, one of India’s major Buddhist sites.

Sanchi differs from other Buddhist sites in India in that the Buddha himself had no connection with it. Other sites such as Bodh Gaya are where he received enlightenment and Sarnath where he began teaching.

Sanchi’s main attraction is a major stupa built by the Emperor Ashoka, who converted to Buddhism around 263 BC after having remorse about the ruthless killing he had done. There are, however, several smaller stupas, monasteries and other structures at Sanchi.

A stupa is basically a dome. Allegedly when the Buddha was asked by what symbol they could use to represent him, he turned his begging bowl upside down and that is the origin of the stupa.

Stupa 1, the main one, had four elaborate gates with a series of lintels above them. The columns and lintels of stone were all carved with stories representing episodes involving the Buddha, but in those days the Buddha could not be portrayed directly, so various symbols represented him – a bodhi tree to represent the enlightened Buddha or a riderless horse to represent Buddha when he first set out on his quest.

After the congested craziness of Varanasi, Sanchi was a peaceful spot above a rural community. Unlike the flat Ganges Plain, there were some rocky hills in the area. Trees blew in the breeze and the air was clear.

I knew there was a train going back to Bhopal at 4:30 p.m. and it supposedly took about an hour, so I headed there a little ahead of time and bought a ticket, not wanting to endure another bus ride. Bad mistake. The train was more than an hour late arriving and it kept being held up on sidings waiting for other trains to pass. Four hours later, I finally arrived back in Bhopal.

I rode second class unreserved, which meant people squished in and sitting on luggage racks and wherever else they would fit. One man found a spot for me on a bench where four of his friends were also riding, but he was disappointed that I didn’t speak enough Hindi that we could converse. Fortunately, a man who spoke pretty good English – he’d gone to school in English – was able to translate, and the men asked me questions through this interpreter. By the end of the long ride, we were all buddies, but the English-speaking guy was totally baffled when they asked my religion and I said I didn’t actually practice an organized religion. I acknowledged that in India religion is extremely important and said I hope to learn something from all religions, which I respect.

The next day I was catching an afternoon train to Ujjain, a Hindu holy city also in Madhya Pradesh. I checked my bags at the station, and then set out to see a bit of Bhopal before my train left.

The north part of Bhopal is mainly Muslim, in fact it’s one of the highest concentrations of Muslims in India. I visited several mosques as well as walking through the fascinating bazaars. Most impressive was Taj-ul-Masjid, which although built in a Mughal-influenced design, was actually constructed in the 19th century. Claims that it was built to be the third largest mosque in the world are exaggerated, but it has a large courtyard, making it one of the largest mosque complexes in India.

My train ride to Ujjain was in a chair car, which is like airplane seating and there is very little space to put luggage. Fortunately both seats beside me were empty so I was able to do the trip of several hours without having to hold my bags on my lap.

Unfortunately I have no pictures of Sanchi or Bhopal to show with this post and few of Ujjain as well. When I went to an internet cafe to copy my files, I seemed to be successful, but when I put the USB stick on my own computer, it detected two viruses. I’m hopeful I can recover those photos when I return home, but after cleaning the viruses, the stick shows that it contains nothing, even though a scan shows the files are there. Relying on unreliable internet cafes to upload my photos is indeed frustrating.

(Update: When I got the USB stick home to Canada, I was able to use software to recover the lost photos, which are posted here and above and are also added to the next post on Ujjain)

 

A corpse on a funeral pyre at Manikarnika Ghat was no longer recognizable as having once been human, but the smell of burning flesh was unmistakable.

My “guide” explained that parts of the cremated bodies, such as the pelvis, are not completely burned in cremation, but are put into the river with the ashes.

My “guide,” who claims not to be a guide, but rather an old Brahmin involved with showing people the cremations, said he doesn’t want money for himself – just a donation for wood that I will give to an old widow who looks after the hospice.

I didn’t mind using him as he spoke good English and knew about his subject matter, including where I could and could not go.

When we first met, he had a word of warning for me – do not take photos. I knew this was strictly prohibited, but he told me that the previous day an Israeli tourist took a photo. The angry family of the deceased attacked him, took his camera and smashed it and threw it into some flames, my “guide” claimed.

He explained to me that there are some kinds of people who are not cremated. These include sadhus, because they’ve already been purified, young children, because they are still pure and pregnant women because they have a purified child inside. Also excluded are lepers and some others.

Manikarnika is the main burning ghat where cremations take place, but there are other ghats that operate on a smaller scale. I saw a couple other corpses wrapped in cloth, waiting for their cremation, but the one I saw at the beginning was the only active cremation at that time. My “guide” told me they are conducted around the clock. He showed me areas where they can do from four up to a dozen at one time.

At the top is an area where VIPs such as politicians are cremated.

He explained how untouchables who work at the ghat will go through the ashes in search of gold jewelry and other valuables that the families leave on the bodies when they are burned.

Dying in the holy city of Varanasi and subsequent cremation by the Ganges is something many Hindus aspire to. It frees them from the cycle of reincarnation.

We now go behind the burning area and up the hill a little. Piles and piles of wood are stacked, filling a large area. My “guide” explained that different kinds of wood cost different amounts, all expensive. Most precious is sandalwood, which is too costly for most families, so they often buy just a symbolic kilo of sandalwood to burn along with other less expensive wood.

While not the most cheerful place, the burning ghat is such an important part of what Varanasi is that I wanted to experience it again.

Other than that, I spent my last morning in Varanasi exploring some of the twisting alleys between my hotel and the burning ghat. It is so easy to get disoriented as you never know what direction you’re heading and can sometimes end up going in a circle.

Then, later that afternoon, I caught a train for Bhopal, my longest train ride of the trip. It was supposed to take about 16 hours, but ended up taking several more because of delays.

My ticket had been waitlisted when I bought it, and over the weeks since mid-January I had watched my position in the queue improved so that on my day of the journey I was up to RAC status, reservation against cancellation, which gets you on the train, but doesn’t necessarily get you a birth unless someone cancels.

Two days earlier I had also bought a second class sleeper ticket on the tourist quota so that if my birth never materialized, I would have a place to lie down for this long trip. Finally, however, just a couple hours before the train left, my waitlist status changed from RAC to confirmed, meaning I would get a birth in 3 AC class as I’d originally tried to book. I was also able to get a partial refund on the inexpensive sleeper ticket, which had only cost around $5.

The trip was long with little to see in the flat Ganges Plain and it soon got dark. I was relieved when my fellow passengers agreed to turn the seat back into a middle bunk so that we would have three levels on which to stretch out and lie down. As in the other AC (air conditioned) classes, railway staff delivered clean bedding to everyone as night approached.

In my area was a family with young children who bounced around all over like little Energizer bunnies. One little germ factory was coughing and sneezing and spewing germs. I suspect he was the cause of a cold that I came down with the following day.

 

Very little can prepare the Western visitor for the holy city of Varanasi on the Ganges River. For many it is overwhelming.

People come to Varanasi to die and be cremated on the banks of the Ganges, their ashes placed into the river. People come to bathe in the polluted waters that Hindus believe to be sacred and pure.

The traffic in the city’s narrow streets is unbelievable. Auto rickshaws can’t get through to the area close to the ghats where only foot traffic, bicycles and the ever-present infernal motorcycles can make it.

Only the ghats themselves, stairs to the river, offer some relief from the traffic, but here the visitor is constantly accosted with offers of boat trips, requests for money, offers of blessing (for a fee of course). You are never left alone.

But the city is an incredible mix of sights, sounds, colours and smells. The sweet smell of burning incense, the smell of cremated flesh, the stench of stale urine. The narrow winding streets are lined with colourful shops selling silk and cotton fabrics, yoghurt, holy books and anything else. Alcohol and meat, however, are hard to find in this Hindu holy city.

Along the river, especially at dawn and dusk, people bathe in the water or set little boats of flowers and a flame in a leaf afloat on the river. Priests chant and perform rituals with fire, river water and duster-like implements as a constant clang of bells rings in the background.

Many of the people by the river are poor and old, begging to support themselves as they wait to die. At the lowest of the low are the packs of thin and mangy dogs with protruding ribs that forage the rubbish piles. Cows too wander the streets and the ghats, also scrounging what they can. At least they are sacred. Monkeys leap from trees to tops of buildings, chasing each other, or stealing food.

I was supposed to take a late afternoon train from Allahabad to Varanasi on Thursday arriving in the early evening. When I got to the station, I found the train was either six or nine hours late, depending on whether you believe the notice board or my Cleartrip app. Either way, I wouldn’t arrive until around midnight, even though it was just a trip of about 150 km.

I opted instead to take a bus, which runs regularly and is about a three-hour trip. I dislike buses at the best of times, but this was worse. I had to sit with my luggage on top of me for much of the journey on the beaten-up old bus as passengers crammed in. I have certainly been on more crowded buses, but the condition of the roads was bone rattling. I was exhausted when I arrived, still not recovered from my illness.

As mentioned, the auto rickshaws can’t take you right to the ghats. My hotel at Meer Ghat involved a one kilometre walk carrying my luggage while I was constantly accosted and followed by touts trying to get me to a hotel that would give them a commission.

When at last I arrived, I was dazed and didn’t notice that the front desk man didn’t return my passport to me after photocopying it. Only the next day when I went to buy a train ticket did I discover my passport was missing. I panicked, picturing having to divert to New Delhi and go through embassy red tape to get temporary papers. Fortunately, when I returned to the hotel, the front desk still had my passport.

I now have a confirmed second class sleeper train ticket to Bhopal tomorrow, the best I could get. My previously booked ticket in a higher class was wait listed so there was no guarantee I would get a birth.

Until then, there is a lot more to see and experience in this amazing, but challenging city of Varanasi.

Lucknow and Allahabad are two quite different cities, the former especially significant in India’s Muslim history and the latter, despite its name, of special interest to Hindus.

After leaving Haridwar, I visited both cities, staying one night in each.
Lucknow is the capital of Uttar Pradesh, a major Indian state encompassing much of the Ganges River and its tributaries.

It was to here that the declining Mughal Empire retreated in the face of advancing British and Hindu forces in the 1700s.

On my list were the Bara (big) Imambara and Chotte (small) Imambara, two elaborate tomb complexes with onion domes and other Mughal architectural features.

Particularly impressive at the Bara Imambara was what they call the Labrynth, a series of winding narrow passageways at the upper level inside the tomb. These led out to a narrow catwalk with only a small railing – not much more than knee high – and a drop of about 50 feet to the lower floor below. I nervously went on it, but didn’t go very far as I’m not good with heights.

The Chotte Imambara was much smaller, but had beautiful calligraphy across the front and a decorative interior.

Often at these sites Indian tourists ask me to pose with them while they take photos on their cell phones. They will often get everyone in their group to take turns posing with me as though we are longtime friends.

In Haridwar one young Sikh got me to pose with him. I met him two days later and he proudly showed me on his smart phone that he had incorporated the still photo of us into a video with special effects. He was wearing a Canada Post jacket that he got from a relative in Canada.

Often when Indians take my photo, I will ask them for one in return if they look interesting. I tend to get more of these requests in places that are less touristy and where I’m more of a novelty. I think for some young Indians it is a status symbol to have Western friends.

Lucknow is also known as the location of a major siege by rebellious Indian sepoy troops against the British in the Indian Mutiny of 1857, which the Indians refer to as the First War of Independence.

For months, the British holed up in a series of buildings called The Residency until finally British troops relieved them. During the siege, thousands of British died and the buildings were seriously damaged. Today it is a pleasant park where you can walk amidst the ruins of the Residency, seeing explanations of who stayed in different buildings during the siege.

Carrying on to Allahabad the next day, on Wednesday, my main place to see was the Sangam, at the confluence of the sacred Ganges and Yamuna rivers. This is a major Hindu pilgrimage site and is the location every 12 years of the Kumbh Mela. At the last one in 2013, an estimated 32 million people converged on the main bathing day, while roughly 100 million people attended during the 55-day festival. Sometimes people are crushed to death in the crowds.

At this time it’s just the annual Magh Mela and far fewer people attend, though there is still a sprawling tent city near the site.

I took a boat, sharing with a couple of Hindu men with shaven heads, to the spot at the confluence of the rivers where I was able to watch and photograph some of the action.

Today I leave on the train this afternoon to Varanasi, the holiest of holy cities, but also one known for its aggressive touts. I arrive in the evening after dark, which isn’t the best, but I’m sure I’ll manage. My hotel, where I’ll stay three nights, the longest time in one place, is right at one of the ghats or steps down to the Ganges.
I fear that despite taking Dukoral and being very careful of what I eat and drink, I’ve come down with a case of Delhi belly. It’s to be expected in India, but hopefully doesn’t incapacitate me too much.

Religion has always been a powerful force in India.

The two major religions, Hinduism and Islam have a long history of conflict, but except for the odd flare up of “communal violence,” they mostly get along.

Add to the mix other religions – Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists, Christians and the odd Zoroastrian – and you have an eclectic religious mix.

In the past few days I’ve had a chance to explore some of the sites most important to both Hindus and Muslims.

First, on my second day in Delhi, I took the Metro to Old Delhi, which is where a large number of Muslims live and it is home to the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque.

Old Delhi isn’t really the oldest part of the city – I visited some of those areas the previous day – but it is a fascinating and congested area of markets, shops and constant activity especially along its main street, Chandni Chowk.

It’s by no means exclusively Muslim. I also passed a major Sikh gurdwara, Hindu temples and even a Jain temple that also takes in and treats injured animals and birds, consistent with the Jain belief in the sanctity of all life. Meat-eating birds, apparently, can’t stay but are only treated as out patients.

I was approached by a cycle rickshaw driver who offered me a tour of Old Delhi, listing the places where he would take me. Although we agreed on a price, he insisted on taking me to a couple shops where he would get a commission. I took a perfunctory look at silks, teas and spices, but didn’t buy anything because I don’t wish to add to the load I’m carrying, and didn’t want to pay the jacked up prices.

Because I didn’t buy anything, the rickshaw wallah got no commission, so he raised the agreed price at the end of the trip by more that five fold. Against my better judgment, I paid him, justifying it by the fact that cycle rickshaw drivers are among Delhi’s poorest residents.

I then went back on foot over some of the areas we covered, photographing the activity.

My last stop was the Jama Masjid, a beautiful mosque with Mughal architecture.

Access to the main interior was restricted for non-Muslims that day because it was Friday, the Muslim holy day. Nonetheless, I was free to explore the main courtyard and other parts of the building and I had been inside in 1977.

Although my train to Haridwar left that evening from Old Delhi, I had to return to New Delhi for my bags, which I’d left with the hotel.

The trip back by motor rickshaw in the rush hour is one that most North Americans would not believe. Cars, bullock carts, bicycles, rickshaws, trucks, buses, motor rickshaws and everything you can imagine all compete for the same space, ignoring all normal traffic rules, in one big honking frenzy. There is method to the madness though – the horns signal the presence of each vehicle, which may or may not have lights on, as vehicles whip around without any regard for painted lanes.

All you can do is have faith in the driver and know that your fate is in other hands.

After getting my bags and eating dinner, I got a taxi all the way back to Old Delhi railway station. The taxi was a nicer vehicle, a Tata Indigo, and my driver, arranged by the hotel, was more professional. As we chose an alternate route to avoid the worst traffic, we still ran into congestion.

My driver blamed the government for allowing shops to set up on the roadway, push carts, and other obstructions. When I pointed out that on my previous visit there were cows on the road and there weren’t any now, he conceded that this was the only small bit of progress in many years.

The train to Haridwar left after 10 p.m. and got in around 6 a.m. I had a bunk to sleep on in a reserved spot and as this was an air conditioned class, the railway provided clean bedding. With my senior’s discount – yes, in India I’m a senior – my ticket got me to my next destination and saved me on a hotel, all for only $9.

I did, however, opt to pay an extra half day at my hotel to check in early, get organized and walk into town.

Haridwar is one of India’s major Hindu holy cities. The centre of the action is at Har-ki-Pairi ghat on the banks of a channel in the holy Mother Ganges river. Here the devout come from all over India to bathe in the Ganges and perform various religious rituals.

Those making pilgrimages to Haridwar range from sadhus or holy men who have taken a vow of poverty and wander through India with next to nothing on a spiritual quest to middle class Indians, who hire local photographers to photograph them bathing in the chilly river waters or celebrating aarti by pouring cows milk into the Ganges or setting afloat little boats made from a broad leaf and containing flowers and a burning flame.

Before sunset, I returned to watch the activities as priests and others chanted, poured milk into the Ganges, and ultimately carried flaming torches to the river. It was an amazing scene as night fell.

Throughout the ceremony and afterward, little boys with powerful magnets on poles or long nylon ropes searched the water for coins thrown into the river by the devout. Religion is a major industry for Haridwar and people of all social classes live profit from it.

On Sunday, I went to the railway station to be there when Taktal tickets went on sale. These are railway tickets held back until the day before the journey and then released at a premium. I had booked a bunk in air conditioned class for the next leg of my journey to Lucknow, but was seventh on a waiting list and this hasn’t changed since I booked it. All the trains to Lucknow had been completely full. I managed to get a Taktal ticket for a second class sleeper, which is in a crowded car and has no bedding, but at least I should be able to spread out and hopefully get some sleep.

Next I got a bus to Rishikesh, another holy city a little further up the Ganges, for a day trip. Rishikesh was made famous when the Beatles hung out there with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. It’s changed a lot since then and since I visited it in 1977.

Today Rishikesh is a kind of new age Disneyland aimed at both westerners and Indians who come to seek enlightenment. There are massive ashrams specializing in all kinds of yogi training. Shops offer everything from astrology to reflexology. Young westerners don robes and various spiritual trappings.

I took a walk over a suspension bridge in the heart of the action to get a closer look at some of the spiritual complexes and the mix of people. The bridge was covered in monkeys that leaped between cables, sometimes attacking tourists and stealing their food.

I watched as one large male monkey suddenly lunged at a woman nearby and in a split second it snatched a plastic bag from her, and climbed onto a perch high over the water with it and began to inspect it with his teeth. Out tumbled a large Canon zoom lens, which fortunately landed on the bridge and appeared not to have received major damage.

It was worth it to see a little of Rishikesh, but I’m not into the new age scene and frankly the busy and touristy atmosphere did not lend itself to peaceful meditation. I returned to Haridwar on a motor rickshaw shared with an Indian family.

Today, I’ve checked into a cheap hotel near the railway station just to use it during the day as my train to Lucknow leaves at 10:45 p.m.

I’ve had difficulty getting my photos off the memory cards as my aging netbook unfortunately can’t read them. I’ve had to go to internet cafes to copy the files off my cards, something I had hoped to avoid. And with the poor quality internet in Haridwar, I haven’t been able to upload photos to my blog.

I’m working on it and will post some when I’m able.

India is the opposite of Japan in so many ways.

I arrived at Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi this morning after midnight. So much came back to me – the smells, the confusion, the mad congestion, the aggressive touts – it was almost like I hadn’t ever left.

India has a couple things in common with Japan:

Both are in Asia

Both drive on the British (“wrong”) side of the road.

Beyond that, there’s not much else the two countries have in common.

Japan is mainly a homogeneous society with little ethnic and cultural diversity.

They have a saying: “The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.”

People conform and they are polite to extremes.

India is a rich heterogeneous mix of cultures, religions, languages and ethnicities. The latter point struck me when I was riding on the Metro (subway) in Delhi and opposite me were a couple woman who seemed almost white other than a tanned look and a few seats over was a very dark man, quite likely South Indian.

Japan is a nation of germaphobes if the many people wearing surgical masks is an indication. India is definitely not, though in my one day in Delhi it seems like things have been cleaned up since I was last here 38 years ago. There are no more cows in the streets and railway stations, in New Delhi at least, and I saw litter being swept up.

Before leaving the airport, I picked up an Indian SIM card so that I can use my cell phone here for voice and data. It is now activated since this afternoon.

I then stepped out and faced the horde.

“Taxi sir? Where are you going? Where you want to go?”

I made my own way to the pre-paid taxi stand, only to find out that one of the men who had been accosting me the most aggressively was the driver assigned to me.

He told me my hotel address wasn’t complete because it didn’t say what block it was on. I knew this was nonsense and I feared I would be diverted to another hotel that would pay the driver a commission. It was now 1:30 a.m. local time and nearly dawn Japanese time and I was too tired for one of those Indian taxi experiences that the pre-paid stand is supposed to avoid.

The driver wanted to know if it was my first time in India – a question often asked to determine how naïve a tourist will be to a scam.

I insisted I had been to India twice before and tried to throw a little Hindi into the conversation. I also told the driver to take me to a Metro station near the hotel if he didn’t want to take me to the hotel.

He told me many streets were blocked because of the Republic Day festivities and the coincidental visit by U.S. President Barrack Obama. There was probably some truth to this, though I think he exaggerated the difficulty.

At one point he turned around and drove a block on a one-way street on the wrong (for India) side into steady oncoming traffic. I don’t think drivers do that in Japan.

Finally, he asked locally for the location of the hotel and took me there. I was almost delirious with exhaustion, but was wired as at last I lay in a bed.

I had planned to sleep in, but the honking horns on the street outside my window woke me early and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I made my way to New Delhi railway station where I planned to use the tourist booking office there to book my remaining train tickets that I had been unable to book online.

Going into and leaving the station, I was pounced upon by more aggressive touts. The booking went well except the woman was unable to get me a place on one train trip that I was on a waitlist for. Oh well, I may have an adventure ahead.

Finally, I got a motor rickshaw over to Connaught Circus, zig-zagging and weaving through a fury of chaotic Indian traffic. I just had to have faith that the driver knew what he was doing.

The addition of the Metro is a big change to transportation in Delhi. It goes throughout the city and I picked up a three-day unlimited use pass. Though crowded often, it is a nice alternative to taxis and motor rickshaws. You need to go through a metal detector and have bags X-rayed to get on the Metro and there are continuous warnings that unattended packages could be bombs. The terrorist attacks in Mumbai a few years ago have India worried about a repeat.

I then set out to do some sightseeing.

First stop was the Qutb Minar complex in the south of Delhi. This features a minaret, a mosque and elaborate tombs built by the Afghan rulers in the 1100s. It’s one of Delhi’s major tourist attractions and I did visit it in 1977. Still, the architecture is beautiful as an early example of Indo-Islamic architecture. I enjoyed watching the Indian tourists. I even saw a few Japanese tourists wearing surgical masks.

In a similar vein, but different century, I then visited Homayun’s tomb, which was a 1500s Moghul precursor to the Taj Mahal. It had gardens with green parakeets and other birds flying around.

Finally I returned to my hotel to watch the life in the chaotic street below my small balcony overlooking the Main Bazaar.

Tomorrow I plan to visit Old Delhi before catching an overnight train to Haridwar in Uttarakhand in the foothills of the Himalayas.

Despite the touts and other annoyances, it feels good to be back in India.

When I stepped out of Haneda airport and got onto the monorail to go into Tokyo, the first thing I noticed was the number of people wearing surgical masks. It reminded me of a hospital.

Supposedly this trend started when people who were sick wore them out of consideration to stop their germs from spreading. But people also used them to keep from getting sick themselves by riding on crowded trains.

Now, according to one article, people also wear them to protect themselves from hay fever, pollen in the atmosphere and even dust from the nuclear accident a few years ago.

They also wear them as a means of social isolation. Wearing a surgical mask and listening to music with your earplugs is a good way to avoid social interaction, the article said.

And it’s also a way to keep your face warm in the winter that is more socially acceptable than wearing a balaclava, not that it is actually very cold here.

There are other quirks about Japan. When I got to my hotel room, it was clear that you should take your shoes off on entering the room, and there were slippers provided. The only trouble was, the sandal slippers were about four sizes too small for my big gaijin feet.

The toilet is one of those hi tech models that Japan is known for. It also doubles as a bidet, not that I use one. The seat is heated. There is a control panel at the side that also includes the option of a “shower” that sprays a jet of warm water in the right place when you are finished doing your business. Fortunately it has an off switch. The back of the seat has long instructions and warnings in both Japanese and English.

There are many options for eating in my area. I saw one restaurant that serves Indian food, but I decided to give it a pass as I will be in India tomorrow. I did consider the irony of the fact that I ate Japanese food in Vancouver, so Indian food in Japan might have been appropriate.

Instead I chose a restaurant that seemed to serve mostly men in ones or twos obviously coming off work. There were pictures of all the dishes, but the posters were entirely in Japanese. You order your meal on a touch screen near the entrance, insert your money and get a ticket that you give to the waiter. I chose something that looked good on the picture, and I wasn’t disappointed. I don’t know what it was called, but it was a plate with noodles, both wet and dried, and vegetables, shrimp, and other fishy things. Most of it was fine to eat with chopsticks, but I still have trouble when the plate is nearly empty and the pieces are small and are left in liquid.

My flight to Delhi leaves late this afternoon from Narita Airport. This gives me a chance to walk around in Tokyo a little bit before I need to get the train to Narita. Then I have another 10+ hours flight, getting in to Delhi after midnight local time.

The flight from Vancouver to Tokyo was bearable as long flights go, made easier by the fact that I had two seats to myself. I dozed a little bit, read and watched a documentary about how organ traffickers in Nepal dupe poor people into donating kidneys in India for a few rupees. I also got up regularly to walk around in an effort to avoid deep vein thrombosis, known as economy class syndrome.

Well I’m off now to explore Tokyo.

As I descended from Allison Pass in the Cascade Mountains down towards Hope, B.C., the snow on the ground became thinner and thinner until it disappeared altogether.

Much of the early part of my drive from Osoyoos to Vancouver yesterday was through a thick, pea-soup fog. In the higher mountain passes I climbed above it into blue sky.

From Hope onward, I have been in a Vancouver spring. I left my car in storage in Surrey and took the Skytrain to a hotel downtown on Granville for my last night in Canada before the flight.

Tokyo may even be cooler, with temperatures at night dipping below freezing. India should be pleasant, with temperatures in the high teens and 20s. This is the best season to visit India, before the sweltering heat of May-June and the subsequent monsoon.

When I arrive back, it will be March in Osoyoos and spring will have begun. I may still see a bit of snow here and there, but for the most part, my winter should be over.

Vancouver has been a chance to get last-minute things for my trip — a money belt, less conspicuous walk-around bag for my camera, compression socks for the long flights, Japanese yen, Indian rupees.

This afternoon I catch the first leg of my flight to Japan. It will be a VERY long day before I reach my bed in Tokyo.

 

In less than 72 hours, I should be on a plane on the first leg of a journey to India where I plan to travel throughout February.

I have been to India twice before, but it’s been many, many years. My first trip was overland from Europe in 1973 when I was just 18. It was a shock to see the extreme poverty and to be in a country with so many people living in such close quarters, without the North American sense of privacy.

Once I got over the initial shock though, I fell in love with India and its rich and colourful culture. The experience transformed me and profoundly affected my values.

The biggest shock, however, was returning to Canada and perceiving my own country as something of an outsider. The rampant consumerism and constant bombardment of advertising that we take for granted suddenly looked different to me and was very uncomfortable.

I returned to India in 1977, once again travelling overland from Europe. This time I had a real 35mm single-lens reflex film camera and it was here that my love of photography developed. Between the two trips, I covered much of India from Ladakh in the north, close to Tibet, down to the southern tip of India at Kanya Kumari. I also visited the neighbouring countries of Nepal, Sri Lanka, Pakistan and Afghanistan.

This time, with only a month, I will focus on the northern states of Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan, crossing briefly into the states of Uttarakhand and Madhya Pradesh.

In a few days, I will fly from Vancouver to Tokyo, where I will spend a day before flying on Delhi.

I plan to travel mostly by railway. In the 1970s, I planned nothing ahead and often couldn’t get a reserved seat. This meant riding in jam-packed railway cars packed into the aisles and onto the luggage racks with hundreds of people sweating in the heat. Sometimes, the heat inside became unbearable and I joined others in climbing up to ride on the roof.

This time, thanks to computer technology, I’ve been able to book my hotels and most of my train trips in advance, probably reducing my ability to be spontaneous, but hopefully increasing my comfort level.

Many things have changed in India in the past 38 years, but I’m sure a lot has not. One thing I can probably count on is to expect the unexpected.